


Silent Night

by khorazir



Series: Enigma [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, Bletchley Park, Case Fic, Christmas, Christmas Eve, Codebreaker AU, Developing Relationship, Don't copy to another site, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, London, M/M, PTSD John, Period Typical Attitudes, Reunion, WW2 AU, Wartime England, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-10-04 22:48:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17313302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khorazir/pseuds/khorazir
Summary: It’s Christmas Eve 1944, and Sherlock Holmes has received his most precious gift already: after a long, dangerous deployment, Surgeon Captain John Watson of the Royal Navy has unexpectedly returned from the front. As if this weren’t enough, there’s a case. Both events make for a night full of promise, excitement, and the difficult task of getting reacquainted with the man Sherlock hasn’t seen in three years and feared he’d lost forever.





	Silent Night

**Author's Note:**

> This is a direct sequel to [_Enigma_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1991325/chapters/4313418). While it can be read as a standalone, it makes more sense in combination with the other story. There are some mentions of what John experienced during the war, although nothing graphic. Many thanks once more to my brilliant beta rifleman_s.

The bells of St. Marylebone Parish Church on Marylebone Road are tolling for the 11 o’clock Christmas Eve Mass when Sherlock and John return to the Baker Street flat. Lestrade thanks them again, and wishing them a good night (with only the slightest hint at innuendo) and a Merry Christmas, he drives off into the misty gloom. Sherlock unlocks the door, waits for John to limp inside, and shuts it again firmly against the icy fog outside. Taking off his naval cap, John sags against the wall with a sigh. It doesn’t take Sherlock’s skill at deduction to see how exhausted he is. Even though they stopped briefly at a pub in Dartford for a bowl of hot soup and a pint of ale (for John and Lestrade, cider for Sherlock), they’ve been caught up in the case Lestrade asked them to look into ever since John arrived at Baker Street in the late afternoon – arrived unexpectedly.

Sherlock still can’t believe that he is here, with him, living and breathing. Right now he is also groaning softly with discomfort – and no wonder, after a long day of travelling on crowded trains, followed by running around Whitechapel and the East End, and even driving down to Kent to solve a mysterious death. He might be tired, but fact, oh wonderful fact is that he is here, in Sherlock’s new flat, a bit worse for wear but alive, when only a few hours ago Sherlock wasn’t even sure he was still among the living at all. They hadn’t seen each other for more than three years, and what contact they managed to maintain with John stationed as far abroad as the Indian Ocean had been sporadic at best, despite their genuine efforts to keep in touch, and moreover to keep their love alive. And then John had been wounded during Operation Overlord, went MIA, and Sherlock hoped – against hope, as his brother and many others tried to convince him – that Surgeon Captain John H. Watson of the Royal Navy was still alive somewhere in this world. This somewhere turned out to be France. Sherlock doesn’t know a lot more than that, apart from what John mentioned earlier. They haven’t had time to talk – not even to finish their teas – with Lestrade arriving with his case only shortly after John had set foot into Sherlock’s new abode on Baker Street.

Now they’re standing next to each other in the dark hallway, peeling off their coats, both cold and weary, finally alone. Even though while they were on the road with Lestrade Sherlock longed for some privacy to get to know John again after their long separation, now that they are on their own, Sherlock can’t shake a faint thrum of anxiety and trepidation. What is going to happen now? What does John expect? He feels John’s eyes on him and clears his throat.

“Tea?” he asks, and it sounds as awkward as he feels.

John huffs out a breath which seems to betray his own jumbled feelings. “Please.”

Sherlock swallows and nods. Tea is good. Tea is safe. Making tea will occupy him so that he can plan what to do next. “Come on up, then.”

 

**– <o>–**

 

The case Lestrade asked them to look into has been a good one, made even better by John’s steady presence at Sherlock’s side. The body which had been found in a bombed out house in Whitechapel belonged to a man who had officially been dead since 1940 after supposedly perishing in a car accident. And yet his wife – widow – had confirmed that the Whitechapel man looked just like her late husband. He had the same shoe size, the same mole on his earlobe, even the same fillings in his teeth. According to a grumpy coroner who had been roped into examining the body at Barts morgue and who’d clearly wished to be elsewhere, celebrate Christmas Eve with his family, probably, the man had died from a blow to the head by a blunt instrument. Upon inspecting the body, John confirmed the findings. Sherlock considered them plausible, too. Since the man had been found in the ruins of his bombed out pawn shop, the assumption was that he had been searching it in the hopes of some goods that could yet be salvaged, and had been struck down by a wooden beam that had come loose. The explanation seemed plausible to Lestrade and John, especially since because upon inspecting the house, they did find some unstable beams. The whole place had become dangerous, with crumbling walls and ceilings. But to Sherlock the bruises on the man’s head and the dent in his hat looked as if they’d been caused by something smaller than a beam, something swung by an assailant.

“I should have known better than to involve you today,” sighed Lestrade when they left Barts and walked towards his car. “Without you, this would have been classed an accident and I would have been able to wrap it up quickly. Now it’s a potential murder investigation.”

Sherlock grinned at him, clapping his hands together. “I know. It’s Christmas, isn’t it? But don’t fret, Lestrade. With a little luck, I can solve it before Father Christmas makes his rounds tonight, so you won’t miss any festivities.”

Lestrade scoffed. “I’m on duty anyway. Remember, I’m divorced now. Not much Christmas cheer at home, and Molly is working, too, although we might spend New Year’s together. I don’t mind, though. Some of the chaps at the station have organised a bit of a party for tomorrow, work allowing. You’re welcome to come, too, both of you, unless you have other plans.”

Sherlock exchanged a glance with John. They hadn’t talked about that, as they hadn’t talked about much since John’s arrival. And of course there was the fact that Mycroft was going to send a car tomorrow morning to fetch Sherlock and drag him to their parents’ home in the country. No doubt John would be welcome, too. Most probably, arrangements had already been made for him to join Sherlock. As much as Christmas with his parents and his insufferable (but recently rather useful) brother usually riled Sherlock, the possibility of spending it with John in a safe place where nobody would bat an eye about whether Sherlock shared his bed with another man held a certain appeal. And Mummy was going to adore John, no doubt, and Father was going to look at him fondly and drag him off to the library to get an opinion on his collection of nautical maps.

“In fact we have,” said Sherlock. “Christmas with my parents, I’m afraid.”

John looked up in astonishment. “Me, too? You want me to come?”

“Of course. Unless you’d rather not.”

John blushed rather adorably at this. “No ... it’s ... fine, I guess. If they don’t mind.” Sherlock knew he wasn’t just referring of bringing along another guest.

“They don’t,” said Sherlock. “In fact, Mummy will be delighted that I’ve found a friend at last – more than a friend, too,” he added in a low voice which made John cast down his eyes and lick his lips, looking a little flustered, but touched and pleased all the same.

“I know it’s been a long time since you’ve seen each other, and no doubt you have a lot of catching up to do. But can we return to the case now, you two lovebirds?” Lestrade interrupted him, his eyebrows raised but a smile tugging at his mouth. He unlocked the car and nodded at the two men to get into the back. “You said you can solve this case before midnight, Mr. Holmes. So ... what have you seen that we idiots overlooked?”

Preening under Lestrade’s and especially John’s full attention, Sherlock launched into a detailed explanation of the dead man’s true identity: he was indeed the same person as the man who’d supposedly been killed in the accident, a man called Edward Northam – only that in the winter of 1940, when his crashed and burned out car had been found in a ditch in the marshes of the river Medway, the bodily remains of Edward Northam hadn’t exactly been recovered. There had been human remains, or what had been classed as such, but due to the extreme heat, recognition of the body had been extremely difficult. Northam’s pocket watch had been found in the car, a family heirloom very dear to him, and so his then wife had accepted he must have been the driver and perished in the accident.

“But he wasn’t?” enquired Lestrade.

Sherlock huffed. “Obviously not. He’s in Barts Morgue now, isn’t he?”

“Do you mean he only faked his death?” asked John.

“Yes. He had to disappear quickly,” explained Sherlock, astonished as so often that all these details obvious to him weren’t to other people. He glanced at John who gazed at him with admiration, and felt his heart leap and warmth spread through him. Oh, how he missed this. The companionship, the approving (and sometimes definitely heated) glances, the flutter in his belly at the slightest of touches, the sweet distraction of John licking his lips, his long lashes, the way he smiled ...

He cleared his throat, forcing himself to think about the case. “Legal troubles, I presume. It’s possible, probable, even, that Northam had accrued quite a lot of debt because of his gambling habit. You saw the stack of cards among his possessions, Lestrade. They were a trick deck. Meaning he still liked to gamble. Moreover his army records will show that he’d gone AWOL during the evacuation of Dunkirk and was going to be charged for cowardice if caught. He had to vanish, and so he went abroad. South America, at least for a while. He had Argentinian cigarettes on him, although the clothes he was found in are of English make – the tailoring is quite distinct. So it’s highly probable that he went across the Atlantic and spent some time in Buenos Aires before returning to England when he deemed it safe again, when his case had blown over. Then, he began a new life under a new name. He even founded a new family with another woman, with whom he shared the house he was found in. You said she hasn’t turned up yet, Lestrade?”

“We’re still working on finding her,” said Lestrade with a weary shrug. “It’s possible that she perished in the bomb raid, or else managed to evacuate in time and is still staying with relatives, now that their house has been reduced to little more than rubble. The bomb damage is fresh, from this week. A lot of people are still in shelters, or they left for the holidays. The shop had been closed all week, the neighbours said. Anyway, so this chap, Northam, why would he be carrying his old rations book and passport if he’s been living under a false identity for four years?”

Sherlock shrugged. “To gain extra rations, perhaps? Perhaps he returned to the shop to look for his other papers, or valuables that could yet be salvaged. Perhaps he was worried that looters might find his papers, or steal his goods. He ran a pawn shop. Some of his customers could have got wind of the bombing and tried to fetch back their possessions without having to pay him.”

“But who killed him?” mused John. “Looters? Or one of his customers?”

Sherlock shook his head, worrying his lower lip thoughtfully. “Possible, but I doubt it. If it really was murder, and it certainly looks like more than an accident, it must have been committed for another reason. Even though the bomb damage was quite substantial, do you remember anything unusual about the shop?”

Lestrade and John exchanged a glance. John raised his shoulders in a shrug. “Not really, no,” said John. “Looked like an ordinary pawn shop to me. Not exactly high class. Just a shop you’d find in an area such as Whitechapel.”

Lestrade nodded in agreement. “I agree.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Honestly, how do you manage to go about your days like this? It must be so relaxing to simply shut out most of the world and live in your own little bubbles.”

John swatted a hand his shoulder playfully. “Oi, you. I had completely forgotten what an insufferable clever-dick you can be.”

Sherlock grinned at him. “Perhaps, but you did miss it, admit it.”

John gazed at him with a mixture of exasperation and fondness. “I missed you, you idiot,” he said quietly, causing warmth to flood Sherlock’s belly again.

They were interrupted by Lestrade squirming in the driver’s seat and pointedly clearing his throat. “Do enlighten us, Mr. Holmes. What did we not see in the shop?”

It took some effort to tear his eyes away from John’s. Sherlock leaned back in his seat and took a deep breath. “The hidden compartments full of contraband from the continent, obviously. Mr. Northam was running a successful smuggling operation in his little shop, no doubt fuelling the black market hereabouts with goods from France and elsewhere. Mostly luxury items hard to come by after years of wartime shortages and rationing. It’s highly probable that by doing so, he ran foul of some of the local gangs, operating under their radar for a while until they got wind of his enterprise. Somebody waited for him at his place, knowing that he would return soon after the bombing to fetch what had survived of his goods – somebody fond of American chocolate. Several Hershey’s wrappers had accumulated in a dark corner behind the entryway to what remained of the back-room. Seriously, how can you not have seen them? They reflected the light of your torch, Lestrade. Someone had been standing there for a while, eating chocolate from the stock.”

“Couldn’t that have been local children, like the urchins who found the body?” mused John.

“Again possible, but improbable. The children would have taken their treasure and brought it to their den to consume at their leisure, or to trade the chocolate for other things.”

“Their den?” asked Lestrade.

Sherlock suppressed a sigh. Lestrade was one of the more astute policemen he had dealings with, but at times it was aggravating having to explain everything. Didn’t these people have eyes, and working brains to interpret what they saw, to join the dots? He felt John’s gaze on him, curiously expectant, and couldn’t help a smile spreading across his face. For some reason, he didn’t mind explaining his deductions to John, never had, and probably, hopefully, never would.

“Obviously. Didn’t you see their secret sign, the black hand, printed on several walls in the vicinity? Of course they have a den for what loot they manage to find. No, the chocolate was eaten by someone who spent some time waiting.” He didn’t mention that he had actually more than heard of the infamous Black Hand, a group of youngsters, many of them orphans, who in recent years made a living in the ruins of the East End. He had used their services from time to time, because nothing beat a group of children for picking up information and observing the vicinity. The previous winter he had occasionally sent food and warm clothing to the gang to tide them over the worst cold and hunger. They were loyal to him, and he to them. But Lestrade didn’t really need to know that right now.

From the inner pocket of his coat, Sherlock carefully withdrew a small bird figure folded from the tin foil wrapper of a chocolate bar and held it up for John and Lestrade to see. “There were other small figures, but I left them at the site.”

John reached out to gingerly take the figure (a swan) and examine it. “So whoever waited there got bored, indulged his sweet tooth with some contraband chocolate, made little figures out of tin foil and then knocked this Northam chap over the head because his smuggling operation was inconvenient for some other gang – not the kids’ one, I hope.”

“Basically, yes. And now, the members of the Black Hand wouldn’t have hurt him. That’s not how they operate.”

“Any idea which gang the assailant belongs to?” enquired Lestrade.

“Not yet. We can’t be sure it was a gang related murder. There are other possibilities. Actually, I’m tempted to leave that line of investigation to you, Lestrade. Ask around Whitechapel and the East End. There are several criminal groups operating thereabouts.”

Lestrade sighed and nodded. “I’ll talk to Whitechapel Police tomorrow. Do you want to interrogate Northam’s former wife?”

“Certainly,” said Sherlock.

“Do you really want to drive all the way to Canterbury on Christmas Eve?” asked John.

“No need. She was asked to identify him here in London, and is spending the holidays with family in Dartford,” explained Lestrade. “But thanks for asking. Not that Mr. Holmes here would have done so. He’d have me drive all the way to Berlin for a case, I reckon. It’s good to have to back, Dr. Watson, to improve his manners.”

Sherlock scoffed at that, but smiled all the same. “I daresay this is a hopeless cause,” he replied airily, sucking in a surprised breath when he felt John’s hand on his knee under the hem of his long coat.

“Oh, we’ll see about that,” replied John softly, a mischievous twinkle in his visible eye. He squeezed the knee before withdrawing his hand and leaning back in his seat, looking pleased with himself.

His heart beating furiously, Sherlock turned towards the window and smiled as well. John was back, for good. It was still difficult to believe.

 

**< o>**

 

The drive to Dartford was a strange journey. The roads were virtually deserted, even more so once they’d left London behind and followed dark, winding country lanes towards their destination. The fog lifted somewhat once they were out of the city, but due to the blackout, the villages they passed through were dark apart from the odd lit window or doorway where people were setting out for church or returning from visits in the neighbourhood, or coming home for Christmas on front leave. Occasionally, a glimpse of the river could be seen, glinting dully in the light of a few misty stars and a waxing moon before the view was shrouded again by banks of fog.

Soon, Sherlock lost any sense of time. While they were still passing through London, Lestrade had tried to make polite conversation, enquiring about John’s time abroad and how he had fared ever since he left Bletchley three years ago. But it soon became obvious that John was in no mood to talk. He answered a few questions, but in a surficial kind of way. Lestrade got the hint. He stopped talking altogether once they’d crossed the river and were passing through Greenwich. Sherlock was dying to learn more about what had befallen John, particularly after the point when their communication had ceased in spring, but he knew that now was neither the time nor place for it.

So they drove on in silence. Sherlock tried to think about the case, but found that with John so close, his familiar scent almost tangible in the back of the car, he couldn’t concentrate. Because of the darkness he could barely make out his features. Near Bexley, he was almost certain John had fallen asleep – he wouldn’t have held it against him, given that John had already travelled for a long time that day to get to London. But John wasn’t asleep. In fact, he seemed wide awake, because suddenly, Sherlock felt something firm and warm pressed against his leg. John had stealthily slid across the back seat until he was sitting close to Sherlock, close enough to touch.

Letting out a shaky exhale and feeling hot of a sudden, Sherlock leaned closer to him. A rustle of cloth, and John’s arm wandered to his thigh to reach for the hand that was resting there. Closing his eyes and swallowing hard, Sherlock grasped it, running his hands over the once familiar knuckles and fingers. He detected a new scar on the back, and touched it gingerly, reverently. John turned his hand to take Sherlock’s in his, examining it in turn, before lifting it to his lips to kiss it.

They spent the rest of the drive sitting as close together as possible without climbing into the other’s lap, caressing their beloved’s hand in turn. John’s head rested on Sherlock’s shoulder with Sherlock’s nose buried in his hair. It was incredibly intimate, just on the edge of being arousing, and Sherlock revelled in it, wishing their strange, dark journey would never end.

 

**< o>**

 

It did, however, far too soon for his liking, in front of a detached house near Dartford railway station. Mrs. Northam and her fiancé _(an Air Force engineer on home leave over the holidays, keen train spotter, drinks his tea without milk)_ were staying at her sister’s and had just assembled at the dinner table when Lestrade knocked on the door. Even though the woman had been informed that the police might want to talk to her again after she had identified her former husband’s body, she clearly hadn’t expected an officer of Scotland Yard to show up on Christmas Eve, and to stand a little awkwardly with his hat in his hands in front of the lit Christmas tree, somewhat bashfully enquiring whether he could talk to Mrs. Northam yet again after introducing himself and his two companions.

Mrs. Emily Northam was a thin woman in her late thirties, her prematurely lined face speaking of years of worry and hardship, possibly some kind of illness as well. Even though she was dressed in moderately expensive clothes, her dress dated from before the war, her cardigan had been darned at the elbows (skilfully, but still visible), and her stockings had been repaired, too. The only real new thing she wore were her shoes, only a month or so old and looked after, even though apparently she hadn’t had time to clean them properly due to seeing to some clerical work in her sister’s shop up until the evening (evidenced by the faded ink stains and the paper cut on her hands). She had just been in the process of fetching something from he kitchen when the three men arrived, and her face fell when she heard they were from the police.

While Lestrade was trying to calm Mrs. Northam and the rest of the gathering, consisting of her fiancé, her sister and her brother in law (both shopkeepers in Dartford), the couple’s three young children, Mrs. Northam’s parents, and an elderly aunt, Sherlock took a few steps into the room and looked around. The hosts seemed to be doing rather well with their grocery shop. Despite rationing, the meal on the table was varied and plentiful. Sherlock deduced that somewhere in the family, there must have been a German connection to establish a tradition of celebrating Christmas Eve in this rather elaborate fashion. He spotted several wrapped presents stacked under the tree. Apparently the children had just been allowed to choose one each to open tonight, because the two older ones, two girls, were each clutching a parcel to themselves. The tree was quite something, too. Sherlock reckoned he had last seen a tree this size and so lovingly adorned when he himself had still been a child. Somebody – Mrs. Northam’s father, judging from a resin stain on the side of his neck – had found a good-sized fir in a nearby wood. It must have been quite a task to transport it into town.

The Christmas tree ... Taking a closer look at the decorations, Sherlock noticed that apart from straw stars, Bavarian silvered glass baubles (handed down through several generations), self-made candles, and wooden decorations whittled by children, probably at school, the tree was adorned with small figures meticulously folded out of tin foil. Eschewing a comment, he stepped over to fir and picked a delicate tin foil angel out of the branches.

“Who made this?” he asked.

Mrs. Northam stepped forward. “I did. Why?”

Sherlock exchanged a glance with John and Lestrade, seeing understanding dawn on their faces. Lestrade nodded grimly. John looked sad. “Very skilfully done, I must say,” Sherlock went on, speaking to Mrs. Northam, “Sadly, this particular skill is going to—”

He swallowed the rest of the sentence when Lestrade held up a hand and shook his head, nodding towards the children who were gazing in fascination at Lestrade and particularly John, resplendent in his naval uniform and looking rather daring with the black patch covering his left eye. Lestrade beckoned to Mrs. Northam to follow him into the corridor, closing the door to shut out the rest of the family who were exchanging confused and also rather worried glances.

“What is the matter?” Mrs. Northam wanted to know a little testily. “We were just about to have dinner, and the children were looking forward to opening their first gifts.”

Lestrade looked her up and down and sighed, withdrawing a notepad and pencil from the inner pocket of his coat. “Mrs. Northam, where were you between Friday evening and Saturday morning?” he enquired gravely.

She looked at him, frowning. Sherlock detected the slightest hesitation. She was thinking of a convincing story. “I was at home, preparing to travel to Dartford the next day – yesterday.”

“Can anybody confirm this? Your fiancé? The neighbours?”

“Arnold arrived yesterday, we met here. I don’t know about the neighbours ...”

Sherlock sighed with exasperation. “Mrs. Northam, when did you learn that your first husband was still alive?”

Her eyes widened with shock. “I don’t understand ... I was called in to identify his body.”

“Yes, but you had met him before you saw him on the slab, didn’t you? You knew he hadn’t perished in that accident, you learned about it accidentally while conducting business in Whitechapel earlier this month. Your shoes, which bear traces of brick dust and charred wood, by the way – you should have cleaned them after your most recent journey to Whitechapel – were made by an Hungarian shoemaker known for this particular broque pattern. He happens to have a shop opposite your former husband’s pawn shop. You bought the shoes a few weeks ago, and while doing so, spotted a man across the road who looked like your diseased spouse. Probably you’d always had your suspicions about the true nature of his demise, so you went to investigate, probably using a disguise. And you found, to your dismay, that Mr. Northam was not only very much alive, but also thriving, with a new business and a new love, while you, albeit content in a fairly recent partnership, had fallen on hard times. The state of your clothes and indeed your poverty-stricken features indicate this. Due to your husband’s dishonourable discharge from the army, you didn’t receive as much of a widow’s pension as would have been your due under different circumstances. Because of a prolonged illness, you couldn’t work in your former profession (a seamstress?) anymore, and had to resort to lesser paid clerical work whenever you felt strong enough. So, embittered and angry, but also hopeful for a change of your dire circumstances, you confronted Mr. Northam, tried to blackmail him by threatening to expose him, but he wouldn’t help you, perhaps because he, too, had something to use against you at his disposal. I would suppose that because he had ties to criminal organisations in the area, he threatened you in turn. Did he indicate he would send people to harm you? Your family? Possibly. But he also hurt you in person, didn’t he? Those bruises on your forehead and cheekbone you tried to cover up with make-up are quite plainly visible because you’ve turned very pale right now. I assume my deductions have been correct so far.”

Mrs. Northam’s face had indeed lost most of its colour. Her gaze strayed from one man to the other, plotting escape, before her shoulders slumped as she understood its futility. But then, suddenly, she drew herself up, her chin jerking forward defiantly. “You are right. He hit me. Struck me in the face, more than once. Not for the first time, either. When we were still married, he’d occasionally ... overreacted, as he called it. He’d always been a brute, but back when we were first married, I was too infatuated – and too dependent on him financially – to recognise him as the abuser he was. You know, when he made it seem he had died in that accident, to run from trouble as he always did, leaving me to pay the debts he had accrued, I was actually glad. Glad to be rid of him. I despised him in the end. Good riddance, I thought when I heard about the car crash, and that he had supposedly burned to death in his car. I thought he deserved it. Had he not vanished then, I would have tried to file for divorce, despite knowing that he’d never agreed to it and would rather have beaten me to death for daring to oppose him. It took me all those years to rebuild my life. Arnold, my fiancé, is a good, steady man. We are almost debt free now, because of hard work. And then I treat myself to new shoes, something I had been saving up to for more than a year, coupons for such luxuries being so hard to come by. And stepping outside the shoemaker’s, I see Eddy saunter up the street. He’d got rid of his moustache, but otherwise he was the same man. The same confident stride, the same insipid smile. He was wearing a new suit, even had a flower in his button-hole. I couldn’t believe my eyes, but there he was, arm in arm with another woman, much younger than him. She had a fashionable hat on, one you’d never get on coupons, and lots of make-up. They’d just been shopping for Christmas, it seemed, because they were carrying bags.”

Her eyes narrowed and she nodded, her expression grim. “You can bet that I went and investigated, asked round the neighbourhood before visiting his ‘shop’ to challenge him about everything. At first Eddy pretended he didn’t know me, until I threatened to call the police. Then he feigned friendliness, even contrition, said he was sorry, gave me a heart-breaking story about how debt had crippled and crushed him, how disappearing had been the only way out for him to avoid prison. I asked what he thought his death would mean to me, how I had been supposed to cope, with all his debt saddled on me. Soon, his friendly façade broke away and the old Eddy was revealed – the one who threatened and bullied and struck. This was the back of his hand, with his new wedding ring,” she pointed at the marks on her brow and her cheek, “and this was the flat. I was lucky he didn’t break my nose. And yes, you are right, he threatened to send his ‘friends’ should I even think about involving the police.”

“Did he send you any threatening messages you kept?” asked Lestrade. “Did you speak on the phone?”

“No, I didn’t keep the messages. I received anonymous threats, though, which must have been from him. I mean, I knew I was a liability to him, now that I had recognised him. I was convinced it was only a matter of time until he would try something. I didn’t know what to do.” She ran a trembling hand through her hair, her composure shaken. “I was thinking about approaching the police anyway, but ... Then I heard about the bomb strike from a friend who lives in Spitalfields and to whom I’d recommended Mr. Kertész the shoemaker. She told me the shoemaker’s had been spared, but the pawn shop opposite had been badly damaged, although the people living there seemed to have remained unscathed.”

Sherlock inclined his head. “And you saw your opportunity, didn’t you? You travelled to London to wait for Mr. Northam in the ruins of his shop, knowing that he would come soon after the rocket blast to salvage what could be saved. You snooped around the ruins, found his secret store of contraband, and helped yourself to some chocolate because you’d forgone that luxury – like so many others – for a long time. You were hungry, too.”

She nodded, gazing at her feet briefly before looking up at the three men steadily. “I didn’t set out with the intention of killing him. I really didn’t. We arranged for the meeting via telephone. He told me he wanted to pay for my silence, to ensure I left him in peace afterwards. He demanded I return his identity card and rations book, too, because both had remained in my possession the first time he disappeared.”

Sherlock exchanged a glance with John and Lestrade. “Yes, the fact both were found on his person struck me as odd, since he had been living under a different name and identity for a while now. I wondered why he would have carried his old documents with him.”

Mrs. Northam nodded. “I returned them to him. I didn’t trust him, but I did go. I wanted to be rid of the papers. I wanted nothing to do with him after that meeting. I thought about returning my wedding ring, too, but then thought I’d rather sell it. He came in the evening, after dark, smelling of expensive tobacco and that horrible posh soap he always fancied. I handed over the papers, as agreed. He demanded the ring, too, but I refused. He’d been wary of me at first, but upon my refusal turned angry. I asked him for the money he had promised, and immediately, he turned downright hostile. He said he didn’t owe me anything, and that my less than ideal circumstances were entirely my own doing. He, after all, had fallen on his feet, had made something of his life, and that my poverty was due to my own laziness. I countered that more likely, his present situation was due to his involvement in criminal activities. Once more, I demanded what we had agreed was my due. He lost it at that, and he hit me again. He was trying to really hurt me this time, or worse. I was so afraid. I mean, had he killed me, nobody would have known. He could have hidden my body in the ruins, and people would have thought I’d died in the blast. I hadn’t told anybody about the whole thing. Nobody knew where I’d gone. So when he rushed at me to beat me some more, after I’d managed to take cover behind a fallen shelf, I picked up the nearest thing at hand – it was a chair leg or something, or a part of a bannister, I don’t remember –, and struck him. I must have hit him very hard, because he went down and didn’t move anymore. I think there was blood, too, but it was so dark. He didn’t make a sound, just collapsed.”

She swallowed, wringing her hands. “I didn’t mean to kill him. But I’d be lying if I claimed that I’m not glad he’s gone.”

Lestrade exchanged a glance with Sherlock and John. “According to the coroner, the blow hit him from above, and from the front, which would correspond with your story, Mrs. Northam. It broke his skull and killed him almost instantly,” said Sherlock.

“I concur,” said John.

Lestrade nodded. “Self-defence, then.”

She looked at him hopefully. “I know I should have called the police right away. But I didn’t dare to go near him, fearing he was only feigning unconsciousness in order to lure me closer. I left him lying there and fled. I didn’t even check how badly he was injured, whether he was still alive. I spent a horrible hour on the train back to Canterbury, and a horrible night, alone at home, fearing that every howl of the wind or sound of the house was Eddy coming to take revenge. I was about to leave for Dartford when the police called and asked me to come to London to identify a body. Only when I saw him in the morgue I managed to breathe more freely, despite knowing what I’d done. I’m not a murderer, Mr. Lestrade. I didn’t want to kill him. But I’m not sad he’s finally gone. If this means you must clap me in irons now and put me in prison – or worse – so be it.”

She let out a long breath, her shoulders sagging again as if her last bit of energy had been drained. She looked as if she was about to faint. John reacted faster than Lestrade and Sherlock, stepping over to her and helping her to sit down on the nearby stairs. He looked up at Sherlock imploringly. Sherlock thought he understood.

“Dr. Watson, please accompany Mrs. Northam inside,” Lestrade told him. “She looks as if she could do with a drink.”

John helped her up again, and together they went back into the living room, John’s eyes lingering on Sherlock once more.

When they had left, Lestrade sighed. “What a bloody mess. And all of it on Christmas Eve. Local police won’t be happy about having to take her into custody tonight, and neither am I for calling them.”

“Then don’t.”

Lestrade looked up from his notes. “What?”

“Don’t call them. Let her celebrate Christmas with her family. New Year ~~’s~~ , too, preferably. And Twelfth Night.”

Lestrade’s eyes narrowed as he studied Sherlock. “Mr. Holmes, what exactly are you asking me?”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. “You know what I’m asking. Really, what difference does it make to take her into custody? To the case, I mean. Edward Northam is dead – for real, now. And from what we know about him, few people, if any, are going to mourn him, because he was a bad, violent man. I’m sure that if you ask his present wife – widow – she will tell you a similar story of abuse. Mrs. Northam acted out of desperation, and in self-defence. I believe she spoke the truth, all evidence points towards it, too. So why don’t you ... lose these notes, and tell your people to investigate gang related crime in Whitechapel tomorrow (which should unearth a lot of culprits of other misdemeanours), and leave this poor woman to build a new life with a new man who won’t treat her like dirt.” ~~~~

He shrugged, burying his hands in the pockets of his coat. “It would save you a lot of paperwork, too.”

Lestrade gazed at him for a long time. “What do I do with the coroner’s report?” he at length asked hesitantly.

“The coroner still believes that the man was killed by a loose beam. It makes perfect sense, too. Damaged building, unstable ceilings. Accidents were bound to happen ...”

Shaking his head, Lestrade licked his lips, obviously struggling with the decision. At length, however, he huffed. Tearing off and balling together the note, he rammed it into a pocket. “You know, Mr. Holmes, people keep telling me that you are an insensitive arse. But this has been one of the kindest things anybody has done for another person in a long time.”

Sherlock felt a blush creep into his cheeks. “Saving you from drowning in paperwork over the holidays, you mean?”

Lestrade laughed. “Yes, that, too.”

Drawing his hands from his pockets and spreading them wide, Sherlock smiled at him. “Well, it’s Christmas.”

“Yes, so it is. Let’s tell Mrs. Northam that she needn’t worry about imprisonment and then get the hell out of here. I’m sure you and Dr. Watson have a lot of ... er ... catching up to do, and I’d rather deliver you safely back to Baker Street before you deface the backseat of my car on the journey back to London.”

Sherlock spluttered in indignation. After all, he and John had only been holding hands. Lestrade winked at him and pushed open the door to the living room.

 

**< o>**

 

Mrs. Northam burst into tears when she learned of Lestrade’s decision not to take her into custody. They were again standing in the corridor outside the living room, with John propping her up. “But I killed him, Mr. Lestrade,” she sobbed.

“In self-defence, Mrs. Northam. Just ... forget about everything. The coroner’s report isn’t clear. We can easily rule it an accidental death. Mr. Holmes here is a trusted consultant, as is Dr. Watson. They will happily confirm the verdict, should there be a court case. I’m not allowed to say so in my capacity as a Detective Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard, but as a man who has had to investigate a lot of domestic murders, mostly of men killing women, I agree with you: good riddance. Some men deserve what comes to them for treating their women like dirt. So ... merry Christmas, Mrs. Northam, and a happy new year.”

With that, he donned his hat, gave her an encouraging smile, and signed to John and Sherlock to follow him.

The returned to Lestrade’s car in silence, each caught in his own thoughts. “This was a good decision,” said John at last.

“Yes,” agreed Sherlock.

Lestrade huffed and shrugged, clearly still fighting some internal debate. Eventually, however, he straightened his shoulders and gazed at the others. “Is it just me, or are you two starving as well? There’s a pub up the street, opposite the station. Looks open. Come on, I invite you. Hope they serve some decent grub.”

The pub was surprisingly full, and it did serve food, albeit only a limited selection. Nevertheless, the hot soup and thick slices of bread they ordered were more than welcome. When he swallowed the first spoon, Sherlock’s stomach recalled how empty it had been all day. He finished the bowl in record time and ordered a second helping, all the time aware of John watching him with a fond expression. Feeling his eyes on him, a warmth that had little to do with the soup spread through his belly. Suddenly, he was eager to get home and finally be alone with John.

They spent the return journey in companionable silence once more, the two of them sitting close together in the back of Lestrade’s car. At some point, Sherlock’s head sank onto John’s shoulder. He must have dozed off, too, because when he became aware of his surroundings again, they were crossing London Bridge. Soon after, Lestrade dropped them off at Baker Street with more thanks and best wishes for the season, and left.

 

**– <o>–**

 

The fire in the living room has almost died down when John follows Sherlock up the seventeen steps. The flat is dark with the blackout curtains drawn, but for the glow of the last embers in the grate. It feels comfortably warm, though, in contrast to the cold air outside. Because of inversion, smoke from the chimney has gathered in the room, making Sherlock cough and retch. Without switching on the light, he moves over to the curtains and draws them aside, to then open a window to air out the room.

Stepping into the living room behind him, John drapes his coat over the back of one of the armchairs in front of the fireplace and puts his hat on top of it. Sherlock turns to him and smiles. “The bathroom is off the corridor next to the kitchen.”

John grins. “Deduced I need the toilet rather badly, have you?”

Sherlock shrugs. “It’s been a long day. I can run you a bath, too, if you’d like one. It would take a while, though, because with our gas supply as dodgy it is at the moment, the water takes ages to heat properly. The boiler doesn’t often cooperate.”

John reaches up to rub his shoulder absently. Clearly, he is considering the offer, but shakes his head eventually. “Thanks, but I’ll manage. I’d like to have a quick wash, though, and change out of my uniform.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, and makes a show of looking John up and down, which makes him blush rather adorably. “Oh, you don’t have to on my account.”

John smiles broadly at this. “Is that so? Still like the uniform, do you? I’ll keep it in mind.”

He turns and heads toward the bathroom, but stops at the sliding doors separating the kitchen area from the living room. “My suitcase ... do you want me to bring it to that second bedroom you mentioned? The one upstairs? For appearances’ sake, or—”

“Or because I have changed my mind about my previous offer of you sharing my bedroom? Don’t be ridiculous, John. Since we’ll be leaving for my parents’ tomorrow morning, you can leave it where it is, or put it in my room to get your essentials for tonight. Toothbrush, pyjamas ...”

John cocks his head, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Sure I’ll be needing pyjamas tonight?”

Now Sherlock feels blood rush into his cheeks (and other parts of his anatomy). It’s a feeling both familiar and frightening. It’s been so long. Even though he’s thought about ... well, _it_ , about John, so often during the time they spent apart, the mere fact that now, after three years of longing and pining, John is here, and intimacy is suddenly an option again, is almost overwhelming. And even though he wants it, wants desperately to be close to John, Sherlock feels anxious and woefully unprepared at the same time. It’s not as if he has a lot of experience in that field in the first place, and what little there is, is connected with John. They only had about three months together before John was deployed again, and apart from a kiss in the kitchen interrupted by Lestrade, and some chaste cuddling in the back of the D.C.I.s car on their way to Dartford and back, Sherlock hasn’t been intimate with anybody ever since John went back to sea. What if he has unlearned how to do things?

He swallows but tries to keep up the light, humorous tone of their flirting. “Well ...”

John winks at him, his smile radiant and full of promise, and leaves.

Taking a deep breath, looking for something to occupy himself, Sherlock hangs up coat and scarf. Then he goes to stoke the fire and add some coals. Taking off his jacket and tie, too, he returns to the window. It’s getting chilly, so he closes it again. Just when he is about to draw the blackout curtain again, a reddish glow from outside makes him hesitate. Somebody in the flat across the street has just opened their curtains, probably to also open a window for some fresh air. The large red Herrnhuter Stern in their window is on full display and lit from within, bravely flaunting the strict blackout regulations. Sherlock hopes the air raid warden will be lenient tonight. The star reminds him of Christmas at his grandparents’, back when he was a boy. They had one of these stars, too, a gift from a friend from Germany. Sherlock recalls his fascination with its shape, and spending hours assembling and disassembling the many points with the help of his grandfather.

He must have stood at the window for a while, lost in memories of Christmas past, when John’s footsteps followed by a warm arm round his middle draw him out of his musings. John kisses his cheek and settles against his side. He smells faintly of soap, and has exchanged his uniform jacket for a sleeve-less jumper knit of navy wool. His tie is gone, too, as are his shoes. He looks comfortable in his socks. The eye-patch has stayed on. Sherlock wonders how bad the injury beneath it really is. He lets out a deep breath, snaking his arm round John’s shoulders and drawing him close. John melts against him, and it’s the best feeling in the world.

Some of Sherlock’s nerves and anxiety ease. This is John, _his_ John, home for Christmas (and hopefully forever). Sherlock’s heart gives a pang. How did he manage to get so lucky?

John seems to be similarly affected by a bout of sentiment, because he sighs, his arm round Sherlock’s middle tightening. “Christ, I missed you so much,” he mutters, his voice rough.

“I missed you, too, John.”

John sniffs, but doesn’t say anything else. Sherlock becomes aware that they are standing arm in arm, in full view of the neighbourhood, illuminated by the light of the red star. But he can’t be arsed to move, and neither, it seems, can John. At least their own room isn’t lit, and most of the windows opposite are dark. He doubts they have much of an audience.

“That’s a beautiful star,” says John after a while. “Do you think they have a candle inside?”

“Either that, or a light bulb.” Sherlock tells him about his childhood fascination with the star. “My grandparents had one with twenty-six points, but there are some with thirty-two and more. In case of the former, the basic shape is based on a rhombicuboctahedron. The thirty-two-pointer has an icosidodecahedron as its basic shape. What?”

John has begun to chuckle. “Jesus, I’d almost forgotten what a smart alec you are. Rhombi ... whatever. Who invents words like these?”

“The Greeks.”

“Of course, who else? And you speak Ancient Greek, of course.”

“Naturally, although I prefer Latin.”

John shakes his head, smiling fondly. “My genius,” he says quietly, gravely, and leans in to kiss Sherlock’s cheek. “It’s good to be back.”

Sherlock inclines his head. “It’s good to have you back, safe and sound.”

“Well, safe at least.”

Sherlock remembers John’s injury. “Is your leg bothering you? Do you want to sit down? It’s been a long day.”

“No, it’s fine. I can lean on you and hope you’ll prop me up when my leg gets worse. I like standing here with you, looking at this fascinating star. Hope they won’t get into trouble because they’re ignoring the blackout. Do you know who lives there, in the flat with the star in the window?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Mrs. Hudson might. But since I’ve just moved in here, I haven’t had time to get to know the neighbours.”

John laughs at this. “As if you were the type to go round there with a gift.”

Sherlock smiles at him. “True. But I _am_ curious. Well, I guess I could try to deduce something about the owners of the star by the fact it’s there, and by their choice of curtains, but not tonight.”

“Because it’s Christmas?”

“Yes. It’s my one night off.”

John laughs again. “Good. I had plans, you know, to switch off your brain anyway at some point during the night. If you felt so inclined.”

Sherlock must have tensed slightly, because John adds quickly, “But no pressure, of course. Given how tired I am, I’ll probably fall asleep right away when I lie down somewhere. Also ... it has been a long time, hasn’t it?”

Sherlock nods. “It has indeed.” He hesitates briefly. “Would you like to go to bed now?”

John shakes his head. “There’s no hurry. As I said, it’s nice, standing here with you. And it’s Christmas, after all.”

Sherlock gazes round the flat, the living room mostly fading into gloom. “It doesn’t look very festive, does it? I don’t think I even own any decorations, although one could probably use some of the glassware from my chemistry set instead of baubles. But you’ll have a proper tree tomorrow at my parents’ house, rest assured. However, if you insist on some Christmas cheer, I could play a few songs on the violin, in exchange for you making us tea.”

John beams at this and kisses his cheek for a third time, his lips lingering a tad more than strictly necessary. “Deal,” he says brightly. Squeezing Sherlock’s middle one last time, he disentangles himself from his side and sets out towards the kitchen, while Sherlock, thankful for the reprieve from sorting out the bedroom situation, searches for his violin case and begins to tune the instrument. When John has found the light switch in the kitchen, Sherlock reluctantly closes the blackout curtain again, before beginning to play ‘Silent Night’.

 

**– <o>–**

 

Midnight has passed when finally, their teas drunk and Sherlock’s arm beginning to grow heavy because he hasn’t played in a while and is somewhat out of practice, they switch off the lights in living room and kitchen and retire to Sherlock’s bedroom. John has set his suitcase against the wall under the small window. His jacket is hanging in front of the wardrobe, the gold braid glinting dully in the dim light of the bedside lamp Sherlock has switched on. His pyjamas are already lying on the cover. Sherlock notices that he has instinctively chosen the side he used to occupy when they shared a bed – albeit a much narrower one – in Bletchley, and at Mycroft’s house in London on one occasion.

John seems as nervous as Sherlock when he follows him into the room. “Hope this side is okay,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, “and that I made myself at home here, sort of.”

“It’s fine,” says Sherlock. “I’ve only slept in this bed a few times before.”

“And usually in the middle, I take it.”

Sherlock gives him a small smile. “Naturally. I wasn’t exactly expecting company tonight, either.”

John nods slowly, lets out a long breath. “Listen, Sherlock, I meant what I said earlier. Nothing has to happen. Tonight. Or ... ever. Perhaps this isn’t going to work out, although I fervently hope it will. But there’ll be challenges ahead, whatever we decide to do. It’s been a long time, and people change. I’m just happy to be back, happy that apparently you _want_ me back, and have missed me as desperately as I missed you. But we have time to take things slowly, get to know the other again – unless bloody Jerry decides to drop a rocket on this house tonight.”

Sherlock glances up at the ceiling. “I should think we’re safe here tonight. Christmas Eve is the main Christmas holiday over in Germany. I doubt even the Luftwaffe would be eager to fly missions on this date. Do you need the bathroom now?”

“No, go ahead.”

Sherlock withdraws into the adjacent room – a luxury he’s come to appreciate from his billet in Bletchley, where there was also a bathroom close to his bedroom. His old flat on Montague Street only had one bathroom on the first floor which was used by the occupants of four flats. Sherlock remembers more than one occasion when there wasn’t any toilet paper left, meaning that Sherlock tended to always take a newspaper with him to be prepared. John has placed his towel, comb and shaving kit on the side of the sink. His toothbrush stands next to Sherlock’s in the old glass beaker he’s been using instead of a proper glass. The sight deals Sherlock another pang to his chest. They used to share a bathroom in Bletchley, their toothbrushes standing side by side. Once, they even shared the bathtub – or tried to. It should have been romantic and arousing. They did attempt to have sex, but ended up with most of the floor under water and both of them laughing so hard their bellies ached for days afterwards. The tub had of course been too small for two full grown men, and it was either them in the tub, or the water. In the end they spent more time mopping up the suds than carrying on, but were having fun all the same. Sherlock smiles fondly at the memory. _Come to think of it, many of our attempts at intercourse were somewhat awkward and ridiculous,_ he muses. _We laughed a lot, almost every time, and it’s been brilliant._

Reaching out, he touches the toothbrush gingerly, his smile growing and turning into a happy giggle. Laughter bubbles up in him almost uncontrollably. John is back, and all the anxiety Sherlock has been harbouring seems to filter out through his skin and drift off like steam. Deep, utter relief remains in its wake. Here’s John’s toothbrush, sharing Sherlock’s ridiculous beaker. John is over in Sherlock’s bedroom, probably wondering why Sherlock is taking so long.

A knock sounds at the frosted glass door that separates the bathroom from his bedroom. He can make out John’s shape behind it. “You okay in there?” he asks.

Sherlock grins at having his deduction confirmed. He wipes at his eyes which have become wet. “Yes. Give me a moment to use the toilet.”

John steps back from the door. Sherlock relieves himself, washes his hands and also his face, before opening the door. “You can come in. I just need to brush my teeth.”

John smiles at him. He has put on a pair of pyjamas. His hair is mussed, probably from pulling the jumper over his head. Sherlock likes the look on him and tells him so, making his smile grow. They brush their teeth side by side. Sherlock loves the domesticity of it all.

“Are you going to leave it on?” he asks John’s reflection when John, after rinsing his mouth, raises his head again so that both of them appear side by side in the mirror. He nods towards the eye-patch.

John reaches up to touch it lightly. “Usually, yes. The skin underneath is still very tender, and I have to keep my eye closed anyway as it’s still sensitive to light.”

“Grenade splinter?” asks Sherlock, noticing the scarring next to the eye and on the bridge of John’s nose.

John shakes his head, swallows. “German sniper, actually. In Normandy, upon disembarkation. I was lucky. My stretcher-bearers were both killed, right next to me. It was utter carnage on that beach. I’ve never seen anything like it, not even during the other war, in the trenches. So many men, trying to reach land and getting shot or blown up before they ever set foot on the beach. The waves were red, there were bodies everywhere. Often, there was no cover unless you managed to duck behind a floating body. But it wasn’t up to you whether you got hit or not. There was nothing whatsoever you could do. It was mere luck.”

He swallows again, reaching up to touch the scars surrounding the eye-patch carefully. “You were running next to a chap, next moment he wasn’t there anymore. Or the fellow right in front of you got hit, and you thought, had I been a bit faster, that bullet would have struck me. It was so utterly, horrifyingly random, the way people died. Had I not turned my head to check on the chap running next to me upon hearing a strangled cry and fearing he’d been hit, the bullet would have gone right through my eye. Like this, I was lucky. The other one wasn’t. The bullet whizzed over my closed eyelid and tore up the bridge of my nose and hit him. I think he died. I should have tried to find out ...” He swallows again. His hands which have come to settle on the rim of the sink have begun to tremble.

“What happened then?” asks Sherlock gently, stepping closer

“I don’t really remember,” mutters John in a rough voice. He has turned pale, the eye-patch a stark contrast to his sallow skin. “I think I ran on, half-blinded by blood running into my eyes and the saltwater stinging in the wound. The pain was maddening. I couldn’t open my eye, thought I might have lost it. But you had to run, try and find some shelter, you know. Otherwise you were even easier prey for the machine guns and the snipers. And then the grenade struck, just when I had made it some way past the shoreline and was about to dive into a water-filled crater from an earlier explosion. I was knocked off my feet and hurled into the crater. My leg was shredded by shrapnel. My side and lower abdomen were grazed as well, but the shrapnel only tore through skin and flesh; none of the important organs were hit. The leg bore the brunt of the explosion. There are still splinters in there, I think. I doubt they got all of them out. It’s a marvel I kept the leg at all, but the German surgeon who operated on me was a decent chap. I think he was as weary of this bloody war than I was.”

John shrugs. “I don’t know how exactly I ended up a German prisoner. I have no memory of how they found me. I only remember lying in that crater staring at the sky with my one remaining eye. There were sea-gulls flying overhead, and aircraft, and shells. People were running and shouting, and there was the constant noise of rifles and machine guns, and the heavy artillery both from land and sea. I must have been bleeding quite considerably. I remember thinking of you, and cursing the fact that I was probably going to die without having seen you again. So I tried to rouse myself enough to administer a morphine shot to dull the pain. I tried to reach my bag to find some bandages, but everything was soaked by seawater.

“At some point, I must have passed out, and that’s when the Germans must have found me. I mean, they could have left me lying where I’d fallen. I’d likely have bled to death. But I was lucky again. Perhaps it was the uniform that saved me, perhaps the fact that somebody recognised me as both an officer and a medical man. I have no idea. I came to behind German lines, in a makeshift infirmary, with a weary looking, overworked German physician telling me in passable English that he was trying to save my leg. I remember his funny accent, both in German and English. I think he said he was from Darmstadt. I don’t know what happened to him, though. I was feverish for days, and the Germans were hard pressed, and basically retreating because of the massive Allied attack. What I remember next is that we were heading south. I was in the back of a lorry with other injured men, some British, some German, when we were ambushed. Turned out the attackers were French Resistance. Apparently they hadn’t known the transport contained injured soldiers when they mined the road. The truck in front of ours was blown up, and our lorry swerved into the ditch and overturned. Some of us they took with them. I don’t know what happened to the others. Guess some were killed in the explosion and the wreckage of the lorry. I was barely conscious, when they pulled me out of the ditch. My fever was still high, and I was doped up to the gills with morphine against the pain in my leg. My head was bandaged, too. I could barely see. My left eye was only a throbbing, painful mess. I still wore parts of my uniform, though, that’s how the French recognised me as an ally, I guess, and as a medical officer.

“Anyway, they took me with them. For days we travelled, at least that’s how it seemed to me. Mostly by night, with me on horse carts or in the back of an old car. I was barely lucid. The drugs wore off soon, and I was in horrible pain. I still thought I was going to lose my eye, and my leg, and probably my life. I finally regained consciousness in what looked like an old castle, or fortified manor house, rather, with a moat and wooden beams everything. That’s where they nursed me back to health, with somewhat rudimentary measures. Turned out they were in urgent need of a doctor. As soon as I was lucid again and able to think straight, I advised them as best I could. They were saboteurs, mostly, working closely with British intelligence. That’s why I couldn’t send word. I couldn’t compromise them. They were men and women, mostly local, and they’d already lost a great number of their group. Most endangered were the radio operators because those were the first to be tracked down and taken out by the Germans.”

He looks up to Sherlock, the pain and hardship of his time abroad clearly written on his features. “God, Sherlock, I thought of you so often during that time. We were in constant danger of discovery. We couldn’t trust anybody, not even the SOE agents liaising with us. The Germans had been weakened and were retreating, but they were still actively hunting down Resistance fighters and Allied spies. We had last minute escapes a good number of times. And whenever we lay in some dark hideout, not daring to breathe because German troops or French collaborators were nearby, searching for us, I though of you, and that I might be discovered and shot as a spy any second, that I might never see you again, or that perhaps you were over here, worrying, maybe grieving, and there was nothing I could do to make it better for you. I missed you so much. I tried to help the French chaps as best I could, just to help end this bleeding nightmare of a war and somehow, some day, be able to return to you.”

He hangs his head, sniffs and swallows several times. The knuckles of his hands on the sink are white because he is gripping the rim so tightly. Angrily, he lifts one hand and cuffs its back over his hale eye. “Bloody hell,” he whispers, his voice breaking as he hides his face in his hand. His shoulders are shaking

Sherlock doesn’t know what to do or say. Offering comfort ... he’s never been particularly good at it. But this is John. John, who is closer to him than anybody else, who won’t mind how clumsily Sherlock tries to embrace him now: turning him towards him gently, pulling him towards his shoulder and carefully cradling his head against his chest. John is crying in earnest now, despite trying to hold himself back, hoarse sobs and sniffs, his face hidden behind his trembling hand, which now he drops to bury his face in Sherlock’s chest.

“Oh John,” whispers Sherlock, holding him tighter and beginning carefully to stroke his back. “I thought of you as well. All the time. After D-Day, after you’d officially been reported missing in action, I refused to believe you’d died. It belied all reason, it was pure, utter sentiment, but I was convinced that had you passed away indeed, I would know. I hoped, all those months. I never gave up hope that you were still alive. I did, in my weaker moments, imagine that you had found somebody else, but only briefly. And here you are. You came back to me. I love you. Very much. And now,” he dips his head and rubs his nose against John’s cheek, “would it be too much to ask you to stop blubbering and join me in bed? You may continue to cry there if you absolutely have to, but at least we’d be more comfortable.”

John laughs wetly, his hands coming up to embrace Sherlock as well. “Christ, how I missed you being such a smart alec.” He sniffs a few times, fishes for his towel to blow his nose, and wipes at his eye, before lifting his head to gaze at Sherlock. “Give me a moment, all right?”

“Certainly,” replies Sherlock, leaning in to kiss his forehead, before turning to leave the bathroom and give John some privacy. “Just so you know,” he informs John, standing in the door, “I wasn’t making light of your experiences, even if it sounded that way. I should like to hear more about what happened to you in France, when you feel ready to talk about it.”

John gazes at him, nods gravely. “Thank you, Sherlock. I will tell you more, but not tonight. Tonight I want to think of other things. Or not think at all for a bit.”

Sherlock smiled at him. “I think I might be able to help you with that,” he says, and winks at John, feeling a surge of cheeky confidence. Apparently he _can_ take care of John. And he will.

John smiles, too. “Excellent. I will be with you in a moment.”

 

**< o>**

 

In the bedroom, Sherlock begins to undress. He is down to undershirt and drawers when John switches off the light in the bathroom and joins him, standing somewhat awkwardly next to the bed and gazing at Sherlock in his underwear. He licks his lips, smiles somewhat bashfully.

Sherlock grins at him, one eyebrow raised, his heart beating fast. “Nothing you haven’t seen before, John,” he teases gently.

John laughs. He looks quite recovered now, his painful memories locked away, his tears dried and his face scrubbed. “True. But I shall never grow tired of the sight. You’re still the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.”

Sherlock bites his lower lip. “Turning on the charm now, are you, Captain Watson? Whatever do you intend to achieve with that?”

John steps closer to him. “Oh yes. Anything to get you into bed, Mr. Holmes. Is it working?”

Sherlock shrugs, feigning nonchalance. He his nervous again, but it’s a good kind of nerves. Their teasing is familiar and welcome, as is the anticipation of what may follow. “Well, I’m not sure if words alone will suffice. Some kissing might be required as well. Would you like to give it a try?”

John laughs happily. “With pleasure.” He comes closer still, raises a hand and touches the vest’s shoulder strap, his fingers briefly shifting to Sherlock’s collarbone, making him twitch slightly, his breath hitching. “Are you sure these clothes are strictly necessary?”

Sherlock laughs as well, drifting closer so that they are standing in front of each other, almost touching. “Now that you mention it, they do seem somewhat superfluous. Yours, too, by the way. Shall I help divest you of them?”

“Please. Kissing first, though.”

“Agreed, kissing first.”

Their lips meet, and like earlier in the kitchen before Lestrade interrupted them, they start out gingerly, almost tentatively, each familiarising himself with the touch and taste of the other again. At some point, John’s hand brushes over Sherlock’s throat and cheek and ear until it comes to rest in his nape, cradling his head and playing with the short curls there. Sherlock’s hands wander to John’s sides as if to hold him in place. When John’s tongue touches his lower lip, begging entrance which is presently, happily granted, Sherlock smiles into the kiss. Emboldened, convinced that John does indeed have other plans than just sharing a bed for sleeping this night – plans Sherlock very much approves of, despite his lingering anxiety – his hands creep under the hem of John’s pyjama shirt, making him squirm when the fingers touch the warm skin there. There are new scars from the shrapnel John mentioned. The skin seems more sensitive than Sherlock remembers. He proceeds carefully, not sure whether John minds being touched there.

He needn’t have worried. John breaks the kiss to giggle happily, which in turn makes Sherlock chuckle as well. He deliberately tickles John some more, at which John’s eyes narrow playfully. “Oh, is this what you have in mind, you wicked man? A tickle fight? Have you forgotten how the last one turned out?”

Sherlock shakes his head, grinning. “I haven’t forgotten or deleted anything to do with you, John. Remember my mind palace. Your wing is still there, and it won’t ever be torn down. But who tells you I haven’t been practising my tickling skills?”

“On who? Yourself? How did that turn out, then?”

“I’ll show you— _ooof._ ” Sherlock’s mock threat is cut short by John tackling him and throwing him onto the bed. The breath is knocked out of him when he hits the mattress with John on top of him, pinning him down and beginning to attack his sides relentlessly while sucking on the spot where throat meets collarbone. Sherlock makes an embarrassing sound, his hips jerking up, his groin seeking friction. John grins against his skin. “You were saying, love?” he teases.

With a snort, Sherlock wraps his legs around him and twists around so that John ends up under him. John doesn’t seem to mind, grinning cheekily and rather mischievously up at Sherlock. Then he stabs his sides with both hands. Sherlock gasps, then growls, and begins to attack John’s throat and sides in turn. They scuffle for a bit, rolling around on the mattress and making a proper mess of the cover. John’s pyjama shirt gets somehow unbuttoned in the process, and Sherlock loses his vest. They end up with Sherlock on top, one of his legs between John’s and their groins wonderfully aligned. John’s left hand is halfway down the back of his drawers, cupping one arse-cheek, while Sherlock right hand has begun to creep under the waistband of John’s pyjamas. Both of them are breathing heavily. They are sweating, their hair tousled and their cheeks flushed. Sherlock thinks John looks utterly delectable, especially because he is gazing up at Sherlock with trust and love and devotion, and just the right hint of mischief.

“What now, genius?” John enquires between gulps of air.

“Now I’m going to take off your pyjamas.” He cocks his head “Objections?”

John shakes his head. “No objections, only one suggestion: that you lose your drawers at the same time.” He squeezes Sherlock’s backside to emphasise his point. Sherlock suppresses a moan and wriggles his hips a little, which provides some more delicious friction. Even though he does look forward to being touched by John, he has other plans for the immediate future. John has endured so much hardship lately that Sherlock feels he needs to do something to show him how much he is loved, how much he means to him. John can show his gratefulness to him later if he wishes to, but for now, he wants to make this as good for John as he possibly can.

He shifts so that he is lying next to John and kisses him again. “All in good time,” he tells John as he begins to unbutton the front of his pyjamas, to then run his hand down John’s chest and abdomen, cataloguing the new scars there and not liking the way he can feel John’s ribs more clearly. The man needs feeding up. Sherlock will make sure to nick some extra rations from his parents who no doubt are well provisioned with food, given Mycroft’s influence and their rural surroundings and connections.

John makes delightful noises, not holding back in showing his enjoyment when carefully, Sherlock slides a questing hand into his pyjamas, following the line of hair leading down from John’s navel. John’s belly trembles and his legs tense with his toes curling as the hand creeps lower, until it reaches moist, silky skin.

“God, your hands,” mutters John breathlessly, having lifted his head to watch the progress of Sherlock’s hand with a mixture of awe and love and blatant desire. “You have such beautiful hands, you know. Large and still delicate. I thought about them so often during those three years.”

“And what did you imagine them doing?” Sherlock wants to know, his voice deep, almost a purr, which he knows John finds arousing. He adjusts his grip to make John twitch and moan. His head drops onto the pillow again while his hands curl into the cover.

“Writing,” pants John, “playing your violin, gripping the handlebars of your bike, steepled under your chin in your thinking pose ...”

“And?” teases Sherlock as he begins to stroke him in earnest. John is painfully aroused already. This isn’t going to take long, despite Sherlock intending to draw it out as long as he can.

“And down my drawers, of course. Oh God, Sherlock, yeah, just like that.”

Sherlock looks up at him as he lies, eyes closed and cheeks flushed, his hair a mess, an expression of pure and utter bliss on his face. Sherlock’s heart swells at the knowledge that he is the one who’s put that expression there, that he’s been the one responsible for John’s happiness. Emboldened, he gives John’s erection another stroke, before leaning closer and rumbling into his ear, “Did you only think of my hands touching you?”

John swallows, his eye opening and fixing on Sherlock. The pupil is dilated. Sherlock feels his penis twitch in his hand. “No,” rasps John. “Not just your hands.”

Sherlock smirks at him. “Thought so,” he declares, and scoots down so that his face is level with John’s groin.

John is watching him with a mixture of arousal and something Sherlock can’t read. “You don’t have to do this, you know that, don’t you?” he mutters, reaching out to cup Sherlock’s cheek, brushing his thumb over his cheekbone down to his lips. _Probably_ , Sherlock thinks, _he remembers my first attempt at fellatio, which even though it turned out to be satisfactory and enjoyable for both of us in the end, was nevertheless somewhat awkward and anything but elegant._ They tried it again a few times afterwards, but not often, because Sherlock never seemed to really master whatever technique lies behind it and always ended up gagging at some point. And even though John turned out to be pretty good at it, the sensations were so much that they threatened to overwhelm Sherlock. Most times they were intimate, they used their hands to bring the other to completion, or rutted against each other, or simply kissed a lot, which in more cases than one sufficed to make Sherlock climax.

“I know, John,” he replies. “I want to, though.” He begins to pull down John’s pyjamas, exposing him.

John’s head flops down onto the pillow again. “Shit,” he moans.

Sherlock chuckles, before bending down and touching his tongue to John’s erection, trying to remember what John liked the last time he tried this. Does one unlearn things like these? Or are they stored in muscle memory, like riding a bicycle or playing an instrument? He gives John’s penis – _cock_ (John always teased him about his vocabulary when it came to sexual terms) – an experimental lick. It elicits another full body shiver from John, another deep moan. His hip jerks up. Sherlock smiles. He must be doing it right, then. The taste is wonderfully familiar, as is the smell, up so close. Both are incredibly arousing. John won’t have to touch him at all if things continue in this vein.

He licks again, before closing his lips over the head and sucking gently. “Fuck, Sherlock,” pants John. One of his hands appears in Sherlock’s hair, the fingers sending even more hot spikes of arousal through Sherlock’s body and derailing his focus and concentration. No, this isn’t going to take long, for either of them.

Sherlock shifts his hold on the erection while suckling some more. John’s grip in his hair tightens. “Sherlock,” he growls as a warning, low in his throat. Sherlock lifts his head, in time for John to pull him up into a fierce kiss as his orgasm takes him, leaving John to pant into his mouth as he comes all over Sherlock’s hand and his open pyjamas. Sherlock strokes and kisses him through the aftershocks until John’s hand covers his and lifts it off his softening penis. “Getting a bit too sensitive there,” he mutters, smiling at Sherlock. He looks spent and relaxed and very, very happy as Sherlock wipes his hand on the sheet and disentangles himself from John to quickly pull the cover over both of them. The air in the room is rather chilly because it hasn’t been heated for a while. Sherlock shifts closer to him again.

“Sorry,” he apologises, nodding towards John’s groin. “I forgot.”

“Not a problem,” John assures him, gesturing to him to lie on his arm and cuddle up to John’s side, which Sherlock hurries to do. It feels utterly brilliant. Familiar and safe and cherished, he realises how much he has missed this. John seems to share the sentiment. He leans in to kiss Sherlock’s forehead. “Sherlock, you are spectacular.”

“I still haven’t really mastered the technique.”

“Doesn’t matter. What you did was wonderful. Don’t sell yourself short because you don’t have a lot of experience in bed. You always make up for it by your willingness to experiment, and your uncanny ability to read my innermost desires. I have never had a more attentive lover, and never shall again.” He strokes Sherlock’s cheek and throat again and kisses him once more, deeply yet tenderly, the way Sherlock likes it best.

“So you’re telling me that despite my obvious lack of skill and finesse, you enjoy my clumsy attempts at pleasuring you?” asks Sherlock, arching an eyebrow.

John grins at him. “Yes, quite thoroughly. Don’t you know? It should be easy to deduce, as my soiled pyjamas here are proof. Shit, they’re the only pair I’ve brought. What am I going to wear at your parents’ tomorrow night?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “We can have them laundered at their place, if you insist on appropriate nightwear. Alternatively, you could have a pair of mine, or sleep in your underwear tomorrow night, or wear one of my mother’s nighties. Or nothing at all. I know which I’d prefer.”

John laughs happily, his eye shining, the skin crinkling around it in a myriad of small lines. “Your mother’s nighty, probably.”

“Of course. But only if it’s a frilly one. Light blue, to bring out the colour of your eyes, and satin because it feels wonderful on the skin.”

John shakes his head, gazing at him fondly. “You’re a complete nutter.”

“Maybe. And you’re here in my bed. Wonder what this says about you.”

“I’m out of my mind, too, of course. I’m madly, thoroughly, utterly in love with you, Sherlock Holmes. And now tell me what you need.”

“What I need? You’re here. I have everything I’ve ever needed or wanted. Well, apart from that Zeiss microscope, I guess, but I shall have to wait until after the war to obtain one of those.”

John stares at him before bursting out laughing. “A Zeiss microscope won’t help you tonight, you git.”

“Help with what?”

John cocks an eyebrow and nods towards Sherlock’s nether regions covered by the blanket. He can’t see that Sherlock’s desire has waned somewhat. In fact, as much as he enjoys John’s touch, he would be perfectly happy to just lie here for the rest of the night, feeling this delicious buzz of arousal without the urgent need to engage in anything to tip him over the edge. In fact, he plans not to sleep tonight, if he can prevent it, but lie awake instead and replenish his knowledge of John’s body, adding new features such as the scars and slightly altered texture of John’s hair _(more of his blond strands have turned white now and thus slightly coarser)_ to the magnificent John Watson Wing in his mind palace. He enjoys sex with John, even though sometimes he prefers to touch to being touched, because too much stimulation threatens to overwhelm his mind, something he dislikes. But he also knows that John yearns to reciprocate. He not only considers it his duty as a considerate lover, but actually enjoys making love to Sherlock, sometimes gently and oh so carefully, sometimes by pushing him a little out of his comfort zone, stimulating his body so that his brain switches off eventually, thus reducing Sherlock to an emotional, needy mess. The few times this happened, it alarmed Sherlock, the fact he could be so ... carnal. Still, the experience was wonderfully freeing and cathartic all the same. He wouldn’t want this tonight, though. Tonight he needs his mental faculties for his John inventory. Some more kissing would be good, though. And some touching ... touching would be nice as well, actually. It _has_ been so long, after all. And his erection, despite having flagged a little, is still there, quite persistent and actually getting the tiniest bit annoying.

Sherlock heaves a sigh. “Well, I hate to admit it, but you are right. While the microscope would be nice, I think your hand will have to do tonight.”

John giggles. “Yes, it will be a real chore.”

Sherlock stabs his side again. “Shut up and do your duty, captain. No more complaints.”

“As you command. Any special requests?”

“I demand more kissing.”

“And you shall receive it.”

John makes good on his word. They kiss for a long time, unhurriedly yet deeply. Eventually, John’s hands begin to roam, stroking Sherlock’s throat and shoulders, and moving lower to his nipples, which receive some sweet attention that soon has Sherlock panting and thrusting up his hips seeking more friction. John obliges by letting his hand wander lower until it reaches the front of his drawers.

“All right?” John asks softly. Sherlock is trembling all over by now, breathing heavily, his burning face half hidden in John’s shoulder. He realises he’s forgotten how intense it is, being touched by John. He nods and shakes his head at the same time, making a strangled sound. John kisses his temple. “Too much?” he asks, a trace of concern in his voice. His questing hand has stilled.

Sherlock shakes his head. “Not enough,” he breathes. “Don’t stop, John.”

John smiles against his temple as he kisses him again, before slipping his hand into Sherlock’s underwear. Sherlock doesn’t last long after this, with John stroking him and kissing him at the same time, until Sherlock shatters apart, his face once more buried in John’s neck and shoulder while the other whispers endearments. Sherlock holds on to him. When his brain cooperates again after shutting off when his climax surged through him, he realises that his eyes are wet and his throat feels strangely constricted. He sniffs, and sniffs again. He is crying. Embarrassed, he tries to shift his streaming eyes and snotty nose away from John’s skin, but John has none of it. He holds Sherlock against him, strokes his hair and back, kisses his temple.

“It’s okay, love. It’s okay,” he whispers. “I’ve got you, and I won’t leave you again, I promise.”

Sherlock swallows and nods, revelling in John’s proximity, his warmth, his scent, and his love. He knows that there will be trials ahead for the two of them. There is still a war going on, meaning circumstances may tear them apart any moment. Also, it will be a challenge to keep their love secret from the public so as to avoid suspicion and, worse, criminal charges. But he is convinced they will manage. They managed in Bletchley, and as long as they’re attentive and eschew risky behaviour, it will work out. Other men have managed for decades, and so will they, he is sure. And what potential their future together holds. John will be involved in his detective work whenever his shifts at Bletchley Park allow. He will be his medical adviser, his wingman, his sounding board, his partner in every sense of the word.

Sherlock sniffs, smiling against John’s skin. John makes a questioning sound. Sherlock lifts his head and gazes at him, seeing worry which is immediately replaced by love and happiness. He kisses John, and John kisses back, obviously relieved that Sherlock is all right.

“What’s got you smiling so brightly?” enquires John.

“I was thinking of the new year, of all the things we’ll do together.”

John smiles as well, brushing some curls from Sherlock’s forehead. “Oh? You have plans, then?”

“Certainly.” He sniffs again, and wipes at his eyes. John laughs gently.

“Let me get you a hanky or something to blow your nose, and also to clean us up a little before you tell me about your plans.”

Somewhat reluctantly, Sherlock disentangles himself from John and flops onto his back. John pulls up his pyjamas again as he makes his way over to the bathroom. A short while later, he returns with a wet flannel which he hands to Sherlock, and then goes and fetches a handkerchief from his suitcase. Sherlock laughs softly at this, remembering John’s seemingly never-ending supply. Some things really don’t change, do they?

After they’ve cleaned up, John joins Sherlock in bed again, covers both of them warmly, and switches off the bedside lamp. Sherlock arranges himself so that he spoons John, one arm wrapped round his middle. John settles into the curve of his body and lets out a happy sigh. “You didn’t cry because the sex was so bad, did you?” he asks after a while of comfortable silence.

Sherlock chuckles and squeezes his middle gently. “No. It was enjoyable. I was just a little overwhelmed, I guess. I missed you so much.”

John’s hand comes up to cover his and press it against his chest. “I missed you, too.” He turns so that they are facing each other and leans in to kiss Sherlock’s nose, followed by his mouth. “Merry Christmas, Sherlock.”

Sherlock smiles and returns the kiss. “Merry Christmas, John. Let this be the first of many holidays we spend together.”

John settles against him and nods. “Yes, all of them, preferably.” He yawns, shifting to lie more comfortably against Sherlock. “Do you mind telling me your grand plans tomorrow? I’m really tired now.”

“I don’t mind at all. Sleep, John.”

John sighs. “Good night, love,” he mutters, already drifting off.

Sherlock draws in a deep breath and releases it slowly. “Good night, John,” he replies. “It’s good to have you back.”

John makes a small snuffling sound but doesn’t wake. Sherlock laughs happily, kisses the top of his head, before lying back to begin renovations of his John Watson Wing. He’s in no hurry, though. He might even sleep a little tonight. It’s so warm and comfortable, and John’s breathing is very soothing. And after all, he’s got years ahead to perfect the structure. It’s going to be a most enjoyable task.

 

**–THE END–**

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, there is an illustration, “Christmas Eve”:
> 
>  


End file.
